


Semblance

by Only_Thing_That_Matters_Is_You



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_Thing_That_Matters_Is_You/pseuds/Only_Thing_That_Matters_Is_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian was feeling more and more like a charity case than an actual person. He wanted to practice shooting to get some semblance of his old life again – the life where he was in ROTC training, working with Mickey at the Kash n’ Grab, still had a chance of living out his dream at West Point, hadn’t yet been diagnosed with his mother’s disease and still had complete control over his own mind.</p><p>set somewhere between 5x09 and 5x10</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semblance

**Author's Note:**

> In this, the whole thing with Carl and Chuckie getting arrested never happened. 
> 
> Also, let me just say that I think Mickey's told Ian that he loves him more than two times! Now, hear me out. After he left the voicemail and they get Ian back after the whole incident with Yevgeny, Mickey has never looked so relieved. So of course he'd probably say anything to keep Ian with him, right? That's my only justification for how Ian responded to Mickey's "I love you" during the break up. He HAD to have heard it before.

Ian has the day off, and he’s never been so relieved.

Instead of waking up at eight in the morning for his usual shift at Patsy’s Pies, he gets to sleep in as long as he wants. Usually the first thing he sees is Fiona’s _acting casual while she’s actually concerned_ face as they eat breakfast together. She pretends not to watch him as he takes his meds, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and he pretends that he isn’t annoyed by her overprotectiveness.

(He knows he should be grateful for her concern over his wellbeing, which he is, and he honestly loves her for it. But he wishes she didn’t have to treat him like such a small child while doing so. He stopped being one _a while ago_.)

Today he’s happy when he wakes up on his own at eleven, even happier when he sees Mickey snoring softly beside him.

Well, as much happiness as he’s _capable_ of feeling when he’s on his meds nowadays.

He pushes the covers back slowly and moves from his spot where he was sandwiched between the wall and Mickey, carefully climbing over his boyfriend and trying his best not to wake him. Once his feet are successfully on the ground he quietly makes his way downstairs, making sure to close the bedroom door behind him.

The kitchen is abandoned and Ian is glad. Even though it’s closer to the afternoon than morning, it’s too early to start receiving the sympathetic looks from his family just yet. He wants at least a cup of coffee in him before the pity party begins.

After making a new pot and toasting a few pop tarts in the toaster, Ian takes his seat at the table and just relishes in the quiet of the house. He finds comfort in the fact that everything seems normal at the moment, with Mickey sleeping peacefully upstairs and the threat of some genetic disease nowhere in sight. He almost feels like his old self again.

A half hour goes by before Mickey is stumbling down the stairs, rubbing one of his eyes with the palm of his hand. Ian simply smiles, not taking his eyes away from the newspaper in front of him as his boyfriend grumpily pours himself a cup of coffee before joining him at the table. “Mornin’”

Mickey grunts. Ian’s smile grows. “Don’t you have work today?”

“Look at the clock, Sleeping Beauty. It’s passed eleven and I’m off.” Ian says before he takes a sip of his drink.

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “No shit. Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“You looked so cute, I didn’t want to disturb you.” Ian jokes with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“Fuck off.” Mickey rolls his eyes, his own lips tugging up at the corners. “Watcha readin?”

Ian shrugs. “Something about a local girl saving a baby bird that fell out of its mother’s nest, I don’t fuckin’ know.” He puts the paper down and looks at Mickey. “And they wonder why they’re losing teens to the internet.”

Mickey chuckles as he takes a half-eaten pop tart off of Ian’s plate, munching on it greedily. “You took your meds, right?”

Ian stills at the realization that _no_ , he _hasn’t_ taken his meds.

After a beat Mickey notices his tense posture and then it clicks for him. His eyes go wider as he puts the toaster pastry down on the table, his gaze not leaving Ian’s for a moment. “You haven’t?” It sounds closer to a statement than a question.

When Ian doesn’t reply, he immediately gets up and goes upstairs.

Ian can tell that Mickey is panicking.

He knew from the moment he told Mickey about flushing his pills down the toilet – he was going to be carefully watched. _Only crazy people do that_. But Ian wasn’t crazy. True, he didn’t believe that he needed the pills in the first place. But if it eased the minds of his family, of his boyfriend, he would take them.

Apparently if he doesn’t take them, even for a day, all shit will hit the fan.

When Mickey reappears with Ian’s meds, he practically slams them down on the table before staring at the redhead. “Here.”

Ian sighs. “Mick, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Like hell it isn’t!” Mickey laughs incredulously.

“Look, I _forgot_ -”

“You can’t fucking forget stuff like this, Ian!” Mickey cuts him off. “Why the hell do you think you spent three fucking days in the hospital, huh? You _need_ these. You don’t just get to decide when to take them based on if you’re feeling it or not!”

“I know that!”

Mickey shakes his head as he begins to pace the kitchen, and Ian can feel his own anger bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of him. But he presses on with a forced calmness nonetheless. “It’s not like I did it intentionally, alright? I woke up, feeling _good_ for the first time in a while-”

“So you thought you were suddenly better? That because you got up with a fucking smile on your face that meant you didn’t need them anymore?”

Ian clenches his jaw tightly. “No, I just _forgot_ to take them.” That’s the only answer he can give without spewing with rage at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Mickey just stares at him for a second longer before bringing over a cup of water Ian hadn’t realized he’d filled. He puts it down on the table right next to the small orange capsules with Ian’s name printed on them. “Just take ‘em.” He says, sounding tired.

Ian holds his gaze, his own eyes hard, before picking up his mug of coffee instead. “I’ve got my own, thanks.” He ignores the look Mickey gives him and quickly uncaps the bottles, popping the anti-depressants and mood stabilizers into his mouth before downing them with a mouthful of Folgers.

After the (somewhat bratty, on Ian’s part) display, he stands up and goes over to the coat hooks right next to the back door. He can feel Mickey’s eyes on him as he shrugs on his jacket, hat and gloves. “Where are you going?”

“For a run.” Ian replies, his voice flat. When he turns back around, he sees Mickey looking at him with a downhearted expression and he feels a pang of guilt hit his chest. “I just need to clear my head. I’ll be back soon.”

He doesn’t look back as he heads out the door.

* * *

 

An hour goes by before Ian returns to the house, feeling more refreshed. After his argument with Mickey he needed to just go away and _think_ , let things cool down and settle between them.

As he was running, he felt bad for handling it the way he did. He knew that Mickey was just worried about him. Hell, he’d be worried about Mickey if the roles were reversed. But he was tired of being treated like he was a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off at any second and obliterate everything in his path.

(Even if he was, which he probably was, he didn’t want to be treated like it.)

Ian is unsure of what to expect when he comes through the back door. Is Mickey still mad at him? Is Mickey even there right now?

His second question is answered when he hears the harsh voice that couldn’t belong to anyone _but_ his boyfriend coming from the living room.

“No, Iggy, I’m not having this fuckin’ conversation with you again! We can’t do another scam deal until the heat with the cops dies down a little…I don’t care if you owe him money, _my_ ass is on the line here and I’m not gonna risk going to jail all because _your_ cheap ass can’t pay back some coked out dealer..And don’t so much as try to round the boys up, or I’m gonna come down there and start crackin’ skulls…yeah, including yours!”

He pushes the end button on the phone, muttering a “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” as he does so. He doesn’t notice Ian standing in the doorway until he looks up and they lock eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Ian says before nodding at the phone. “Iggy want you to start robbing houses again?”

Mickey glances at the device in his hand and shakes his head. “He’s a fucking idiot. He doesn’t realize that Tony’s sniffing down our necks just _waiting_ until we fuck up to haul our asses off to Cook County.”

“Tony, huh?” Ian steps into the living room slowly. “You know Fiona had the chance to bang him once? She probably did. The guy was practically in love with her, always coming around and throwing her dopey eyed glances. I swear he was like a twelve year old girl.” He takes another step. “Could’ve been a sweet deal too. The Gallaghers with a hand in the pocket of the Chicago P.D. would have provided some awesome benefits.”

Mickey’s expression is softening with every word that comes out of Ian’s mouth, and the tension between them is practically nonexistent as Ian stops right in front of him.

“Would’ve helped _me_ out right about now.” Mickey mutters. “Think the offer is still on the table?”

“Tony and Fiona? Nah. I heard he shacked up with someone, they live right next door.”

“Fuck,” Mickey rolls his eyes. “You got the cops living only a foot away from your front door? I thought this place was a fuckin’ _safe house_ compared to mine.”

“It is.” Ian says, and the truth behind it holds enough weight to extinguish the humor between them. After a few seconds he sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the one who flipped out for no fuckin’ reason.” Mickey mumbles, his own form of an apology.

The corners of Ian’s lips tug up. “I get why you did. I know I haven’t exactly been _easy_ lately-”

“Aye, come on,” Mickey cuts him short, shaking his head.

“But I swear it wasn’t deliberate.” Ian continues. “I was having a good morning and I forgot to take them. Besides, they were all the way upstairs and I was already comfy at the kitchen table..” He likes the way Mickey finally grins. “And _you_ looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to wake you-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey smiles before tugging on Ian’s jacket and pulling him forward, their lips meeting in the middle. Ian’s hands instantly find Mickey’s waist and he holds on, pulling his boyfriend closer right there in the middle of the Gallagher living room.

He smiles as he feels Mickey’s hands move from the front of his jacket to the back of his neck, slowly making their way into his hair and pushing his hat off in the process. “You’re such a fuckin’ idiot.” Mickey says against his lips through a smile of his own.

Eventually they pull apart, slightly breathless from the intensity of the kiss due to the combination of forgiving each other and just _each other_.

(The spark between them could ignite into a full blown fire while they were good and was only ever dimmed at best when they were bad. Neither of them thought for a second that it would ever be put out completely.)

“So you’re not gonna do it, right?”

“Do what?” Mickey asks, though his eyes are still trained on Ian’s lips.

“The scam. Because you’re right – it would be a stupid fucking move if you did.”

Ian actually looks worried and Mickey can’t help but smile. “Nah man, it’s too risky. Iggy can sort his shit out on his own.”

“Good.” Leaning in once more, Ian kisses Mickey before turning and picking up his hat from where it landed on the floor. “So, I have an idea.”

“Ian, I swear if this involves another suitcase-”

“ _No_ ,” Ian laughs, cutting him short. “Nothing like that. I wanted to do something we haven’t done in a while. And I thought, since I have the day off, now could be a good time.”

“What?” Mickey asks, pocketing his cell before following Ian into the kitchen.

Ian stops walking and turns suddenly. “Can I borrow a gun?”

“The fuck?”

“I was thinking we could go back to that rooftop we were at. You know, the one where we set up all of my ROTC training equipment?” When Mickey still looks puzzled, Ian grins. “Where I practically _dared_ you to finally kiss me and you totally fell for it?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I didn’t _fall_ for anything, alright? And if you mention that old queen you used to bang I think I might puke.”

“Hey, you’re the one bringing him up.” Ian held up his hands, making Mickey roll his eyes yet again.

He passes Ian to get to the fridge, fishing out a beer and pulling the latch on the can. “What do you need a gun for, anyway?”

“I’m out of practice.” Ian explains like it’s so easy. “I know I have no chance of getting back into the army, not with the MP’s after my ass, but I figured that I shouldn’t let a good skill go to waste, you know?”

Mickey stills at Ian’s words, not ignoring the fact that Ian just talked about his crushed dream so nonchalantly. Was it because of the meds?

(He tries to forget about the pang of guilt he feels knowing that _he_ is the reason Ian illegally joined up in the first place.)

He figures the whole thing would be harmless enough.

“Yeah man, whatever.” Mickey downs half the can. “We’ll have to stop by my place and get one, no doubt running into Iggy’s whiny ass along the way.”

However it’s hard for him to act annoyed at seeing the somewhat hopeful look on Ian’s face.

After a beat his curiosity gets the better of him and he asks, “Why do you wanna do this, though? What brought it on?”

Ian simply shrugs. “Like I said, I’m out of practice.”

He hands Mickey his coat and walks off and Mickey _knows_ there’s more to it but decides not to press any further.

* * *

 

Not two hours later Ian and Mickey walk onto the forgotten training ground, their coats hung heavy around them and the stolen .45 in Ian’s book bag.

“Man, this place hasn’t changed at all.” Mickey comments, looking around at the car tires and exercise ladders thrown haphazardly on the ground.

Ian nods, surveying the area with his own eyes. “I didn’t think this stuff would still be here.”

Mickey glances at him before walking over and hopping up, planting his butt on the same ledge he sat at while Ian trained for the army so long ago. “Well tough guy, the place is all yours.”

Ian throws him a smirk as he unzips his bag, reaching in and pulling out the small handheld gun.

(Mickey would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt a slight rush of panic at the sight of an unstable Ian with a powerful weapon in his hand.)

He then pulls out the extra ammunition they’d brought along before throwing his bag out of the way. He takes his time as he loads the gun, slowly getting used to the feel of having such a thing in his grasp again.

“What’re you going to shoot?” Mickey asks, his eyes never once leaving the redhead.

“Dunno,” Ian mutters, finally pulling his gaze away to look around himself. “Something that doesn’t ricochet. Wouldn’t want anything coming back and scratching that pretty face of yours.”

“Fuck you.” Mickey huffs out through a laugh, his breath making a small cloud in front of his face.

After another minute of looking around, Ian spots an old punching bag in the corner of the square and decides that it will do. He quickly grabs it, strings it up and pulls the marker he’d brought out of his coat pocket before drawing a quick version of someone’s profile on the bag.

Mickey smirks at the lazily drawn silhouette. “You could become an artist. Make it big in New York, buy one of those fruity apartments with a view you like so much…”

“Shut up.” Ian chuckles, pocketing the marker as he takes a step back.

With the gun in his hand, he slowly raises it to aim and shoot. But when he just stands there for a minute, Mickey thinks he might’ve changed his mind about the whole thing. “Whenever you’re ready, Army.”

The sudden sound of the gun firing makes both men jump, though they’d never admit to it.

“Sorry,” Ian says when he realizes that he didn’t hit anywhere near the target. “It’s been a while.”

Mickey simply nods. (He doesn’t think he’s ever watched someone so closely before in his life.)

“Okay…” Ian says to himself as he closes his eyes and breathes before aiming the gun again. “Let’s start simple, like when Linda was teaching Kash.”

“What’d you say about Towelhead?” Mickey pipes up, his eyebrows furrowed.

Ian realizes that he’d voiced his thoughts and laughs lightly. “Remember when you kept stealing from the Kash n’ Grab? One night Linda got so sick of it that she decided to teach her husband a thing or two about self-defense. She locked up the store, took us both out back and made him practice shooting on a cardboard cutout.”

“The fuck did _she_ know about shooting a gun?”

“She wasn’t bad. Shot the thing like twelve times in the crotch. Didn’t miss once.”

Mickey’s eyebrows arch an inch, almost as if he’s impressed. “What about shithead?”

“You mean _Kash_?” Ian says, laughing again at the face Mickey makes. “He was a lost cause. Couldn’t aim anywhere near it.”

(Mickey feels slight satisfaction knowing that he was for sure better at something than Ian’s old flame, even though it’s ridiculous considering how far they’ve come.)

Ian turns back to the punching bag, holding the gun up again. “Okay, let’s start with the left shoulder.” He closes one eye and pulls the trigger, hitting exactly in the right spot. He can’t help the grin that practically eats up his face as he turns back to Mickey. “D’you see that?”

Mickey smiles, actually _smiles_ , because he knows how happy Ian is. “Good job, Gallagher.”

Ian’s back to aiming in the next second, feeling a new rush of adrenaline and confidence he hadn’t felt before. “Right shoulder.” He shoots again, once again hitting the desired spot. He proceeds his good mood with putting a bullet through both legs on the dummy.

He feels a sense of joy he hasn’t felt in a long time surge through him.

Maybe he’s not as completely hopeless as he thought.

“Stomach.” He says, aiming. However, at the last second, his wrist jerks and he misses the target by a few centimeters. With a frown he tries again, this time coming closer but still not entirely spot on. “What the hell?”

“You’re doin’ good, man.” Mickey says, trying to be encouraging, but Ian’s expression stays the same.

“ _Stomach_.” He says again, this time with more determination. After two more shots he manages to plant the bullet where he wants it to go. He feels relief, but it’s not enough to stop his shoulders from sagging slightly.

After a second he squares up again, resolute on succeeding. “Face.” He pulls the trigger and the bullet lands in the middle of the head on the dummy. But Ian isn’t thrilled, he _knows_ that – like the arms and legs – those were considerably easy targets to hit.

“Neck.” He presses on. At this point his hand is shaky from firing the gun so many times, more than he’s been used to doing for a while now. He doesn’t come close and tries again, failing every time the bullet leaves the pistol in his hand.

(He pretends that he’s not also shaking from the medication he’s currently on, not wanting to consider that his newfound disease might be deterring him from his once loved dream.)

“Come on,” Ian grits his teeth, continuing to shoot for the neck but coming up with nothing. A few times he hits the shoulders again, once in the face, but not the neck. “Come _on_!”

“Ian-” Mickey starts, but he’s drowned out by the sounds of the bullets flying through the air.

“Heart.” Ian tries for a new location, hoping that maybe he’d succeed on this one. But he can’t even aim at the punching bag anymore. He’s shaking so much – from anger, the meds, the aftershock of the gun – the bullets are going everywhere except where he wants them to go.

He’s never felt so out of control in his life before now.

Once, twice more, after the third time of missing the target Ian throws the gun onto the ground and yells, “Fuck!” at the sky. He’s breathing heavily as he cards his fingers through his hair, his fingernails scraping his scalp in desperate irritation.

Meanwhile Mickey can only sit back and watch as the person he loves most in the world slowly unravels before him.

“This is wrong, this is all wrong.” He hears Ian mumble, his red head hung low against his chest.

Mickey jumps down from where he’s perched on the ledge and walks over. “Ian, hey, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not.” Ian shakes his head, finally looking up again. “I can’t fucking shoot, Mick. This used to be like second nature to me. This used to be my _life_! Now I can’t even..fuck!”

Suddenly he’s hit with realization. Ian had been out of it for days now, blindly taking his meds and dealing with the constant worry surrounding him, _because_ of him. Everyone had been so concerned with what crazy thing he was going to do next that they didn’t stop to consider how he might have felt during it all. After all, it was _his_ world being turned upside down.

(Mickey thinks that his world was turned too since Ian was basically his life now.)

Ian was feeling more and more like a charity case than an actual person. He wanted to practice shooting to get some semblance of his old life again – the life where he was in ROTC training, working with Mickey at the Kash n’ Grab, still had a chance of living out his dream at West Point, hadn’t yet been diagnosed with his mother’s disease and still had complete control over his own mind.

“It’s these fucking meds, they’re messing with me.” Ian says, softer this time, his eyes closed.

Mickey quickly grabs the back of Ian’s neck gently. “So your first time wasn’t perfect. No fucking problem. We can come back tomorrow and try again.”

Ian laughs humorlessly, almost darkly. “It’s no use.”

“Bullshit.” Mickey shakes his head.

Ian finally opens his eyes, meeting Mickey’s, and he smiles like he’s grateful for the attempt at reassurance. Mickey can see that he doesn’t believe him. “Come on, let’s go. This was…” He trails off and Mickey squeezes the hand on his neck. “It was fun. Let’s just go.”

“You’ll get back to this. You hear me?” Mickey tries again, pulling Ian closer. “You _will_.”

Ian stares at him, emotions flickering through his eyes and Mickey can feel his throat tighten up. Finally a small, unconvincing smile makes its way onto Ian’s lips and he nods. “Yeah.” He then steps out of Mickey’s grasp, grabs the pistol and his bag and begins making his way out of the training area.

Mickey can only stand and stare after him.

* * *

 

Hours later, the sky is dark as an action movie filters throughout the Gallagher house. Fiona, Lip and Debbie take up the couch, Carl is on the floor, Mickey is in the blanketed sofa nearest to the door and Ian is next to him in the white recliner. Everyone is acting civil for once. They make jokes and get along well enough to the point that Mickey is beginning to really feel comfortable around the family. Or, at least as much as he _can_ around people who aren’t just Ian and Mandy.

Halfway through the movie, Ian places his soda down on the table next to everyone else’s beers and stands up from where he’d been sitting. Nobody lifts an eyelash as he silently weaves through the mess of bodies in the living room to get to the kitchen, paying no mind to him as he goes.

No one except for Mickey of course.

He waits a beat before he too stands up, following after his boyfriend with slight concern gnawing at him. He knows he might be overreacting – Ian could’ve easily just been going to the bathroom or getting a fresher beverage. But with everything that’d been happening lately, he wants to make sure that absolutely _nothing_ is wrong.

(Call him a control freak, then duck when he swings at you.)

His concern only intensifies as he walks into the kitchen and sees Ian. The redhead is standing at the sink, his back turned to Mickey, his fists braced against the edge of the counter and his head hung low.

“Hey,” Mickey says, trying hard _not_ to convey too much of the worry he’s feeling into his tone. “you okay?”

Ian picks his head up as he turns, giving only the faintest of smiles to his boyfriend. “Yeah.”

Mickey’s eyebrows raise as Ian walks toward him. “You sure?”

Ian’s only response is a half-assed grin. “Go back and enjoy the movie. Take advantage of the rare occasion that my family isn’t fighting with you for once. Or _each other_ for that matter.” His laugh is hollow as he pats Mickey’s hip and heads for the stairs not ten feet away from them.

Just as he’s about to make his ascent, Mickey’s voice stops him. “Ian.”

“I’m _fine_ , Mick. Really,” He knows Ian is trying to be convincing with the smile he throws his way, but Mickey can see right through it. “I’m good.” With a nod he turns and begins up the steps, not without saying over his shoulder, “Come up when it’s over, okay?”

“Yeah.” Is Mickey’s reply. He’s then left alone, staring at the space that Ian had been standing in only moments before, his heart heavy with emotion. Finally he shakes his head, blinks a few times and opens the fridge to pull out an ice cold beer before making his way back into the living room.

It’s only after he’s seated that Fiona speaks. “He doin’ okay?”

“Who the hell knows.” Mickey says dejectedly before taking a swig of his drink, his eyes focusing back on the screen in front of them.

* * *

 

Once the movie is over, Mickey’s wastes no time in going up to the boys’ shared room. As soon as he opens the door he sees Ian on his bed, his back against the mattress and his eyes trained on the ceiling. The blank look in Ian’s eyes is enough to make Mickey heartsick.

Nonetheless, Ian turns his head and looks at Mickey. And it’s almost as if the indifference, the almost hopelessness in his expression lets up to reveal something close to happiness at the sight of his dark haired, tattooed knuckled boyfriend standing in his doorway.

“Hey.”

“The movie over yet?” Ian asks, his fingers playing with the edge of his shirt absentmindedly.

Mickey nods, a smirk on his face. “Yeah. It gave Carl a few new ideas that I don’t think Fiona’s very happy with.” He says, referring to all the violence he and the rest of the Gallagher clan just witnessed on screen. He could almost laugh at the memory of Carl’s eyes lighting up when he saw a man being murdered on the TV, then Lip and Fiona’s exchanging of concerned looks at the realization of _oh shit, we’re giving him gas to fuel his psychotic fire_.

His lightheartedness is short lived when he realizes that his remark didn’t get so much as a chuckle out of the redhead before him.

“Glad you guys enjoyed it.” Ian closes his eyes as he turns his head back to face the ceiling once more.

“Wasn’t the same without you.”

Mickey hates honesty, especially when it deals with anything he’s feeling. He’d much rather fight it out with someone than talk it out any day – that’s how it’s always been for him. But it seems that that, along with countless other methods of defense, self-preservation and his tough guy attitude fly out the window when it comes to Ian Gallagher.

 _Fuckin’ Gallagher_.

Ian looks back at his words, his expression visibly different than before. His eyes are soft and his lips are turned into a smile that actually seems sincere. It only makes Mickey’s heart swell, no matter how gay that may sound.

(He knows Ian has really been taking a toll on his heart recently and he doesn’t know if he likes it or not. Then he decides that if Ian can make him feel as good as he does in this particular moment then it’s worth all of the bad that comes with it.)

“Come’ere,” Ian gestures to the small space beside him and Mickey complies immediately, not being one for passing up any sort of time spent in close proximity with the redhead. Besides, he figures Ian owes him after spending over an hour with his batshit family downstairs.

(He won’t admit that maybe it wasn’t _so bad_.)

Once Mickey is settled on the bed, a few seconds of silence pass between them before Ian speaks again. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, man.” Mickeys says back, and he knows they’re not talking about Ian skipping out on the action flick.

He feels Ian let out a sigh beside him. “You didn’t sign up for this shit.”

Mickey turns his head and sees that Ian’s eyes are glassy with unshed tears. So he tries to lighten the mood. “I lost the receipt, can’t return you even if I tried.”

Ian isn’t having it. “You don’t have to stick around for this. If it is what they say it is – if it’s the same as Monica…” He trails off slightly for a moment. “I’ve seen how bad it can get, Mick. She was upbeat and happy one day then the next she wouldn’t get out of bed for _anything_ – fuck, she slit her own fucking wrists at Thanksgiving! There was a shit ton of blood on the floor and the looks on Carl and Debbie’s faces..not to mention Frank, _fucking_ Frank, the man who claimed to love her not saying a word as he just walked out on her. What if _I_ get that bad, huh? What if one day I decide that it’s too much and _I_ slit _my_ wrists only for you to find me…what if _we’re_ like Frank and Monica-”

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Mickey quickly raises his hand to cup Ian’s face, forcing the younger boy to look at him. “I’m not leaving you, alright? Get that shit out of your head right now.”

Ian’s still breathing heavily from his outburst. “ _He_ said the same thing.”

“You’re really comparing me to your fuckhead of a father right now?” Mickey asks with a raise of his eyebrows, his tone borderline playful. If anything he’s trying to relieve the tension in the room.

“You can if you want to, you know.”

“Who says I fucking want to?” He drops his hand, knowing that Ian will keep looking at him without the extra help. “Jesus, Ian. I’m here because I want to be. You know I don’t do shit I don’t wanna do.”

(He chooses to ignore the whole wedding with Svetlana thing because that was _before_. Things are different now and he knows Ian knows it too.)

Ian swallows thickly, not once breaking eye contact with Mickey. “I’m just saying that, if you _do_ end up leaving, I’ll understand.”

His voice is so small and his eyes hold a sadness in them that causes Mickey’s stomach to plummet. It makes him wonder just how long Ian has thought about it, thought about Mickey being fed up with everything and just skipping out on him. Does he really think Mickey would do that? _Could_ do that?

He has to remind himself that Ian hasn’t been in the right state of mind for a while now.

With that thought he smiles softly and thumbs at Ian’s cheek, his hand warm against the cold and pale skin. He needs to reassure Ian by showing him the kindness and affection only the Gallagher kid himself ever gets to witness on Mickey.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Mickey states with a finality in his tone that Ian doesn’t question. Not that he gets a chance to, because in the next second Mickey is leaning in and pressing his lips against Ian’s. The kiss is sweet and gentle – everything no one would _dare_ associate with Mickey Milkovich in a million years – and it’s enough to ease Ian’s worries, at least for the time being.

After they pull away, Mickey stares into Ian’s eyes as he tells him he loves him. Ian’s only ever heard those words come from the Milkovich’s mouth once before, and it was from a crappy voicemail on his phone. To hear it in person, to see Mickey’s face and see the actual sincerity in his eyes, makes Ian believe that maybe everything _could_ be okay after all.


End file.
